Everything Comes Back To You
by pm400
Summary: Arthur was always comforted by the fact that he would never become king, being the second oldest son. When unfortunate circumstances bring him to the throne, he can't postpone his inevitable mental breakdown any longer. He's just thankful Alfred is there to intercept him. A short oneshot.


Arthur's shaky hand reached out and gently turned down the volume on the cell next to him, the news broadcast of no interest to him and his cloudy mind at the present moment. He took the liberty to glance at the time. Christ, when had it gotten to be so late? He placed his hand back on his thigh with a shaky breath, but jumped slightly at the feeling of the fabric, as it felt rougher than when he had touched it just a few seconds ago. He scowled and instead let his hand rest on the seat next to his leg, gripping its edge gently enough that he did not have to think much about the action to execute it.

"Hey."

Arthur looked to his left, the dim light of the room draping Alfred's face perfectly. His glasses sat perched neatly on the bridge of his nose, and his lips were set in a perfect horizonal line; Alfred's masquerade of emotions, seemingly dull and exploding with color at the same time made Arthur almost look away, but he couldn't find the strength. Alfred's eyes seemed to pour into Arthur's, threatening to melt away the ice that shrouded his heart. He might have let it thaw right then, if he were not so fragile. He couldn't utter a word in reply.

"What're you thinking about?" Alfred's kind voice pierced Arthur's ears deafeningly, though it couldn't have been more than a whisper. He winced and managed to look away from Alfred and back down into his lap. What _was _he thinking about? He didn't know – it hurt his head to think any thoughts, and more so difficult thoughts. He didn't know what he _could _think, or if he would ever think again. He wanted to sigh again but felt his diaphragm would give out if he tried.

Arthur relaxed slightly when Alfred took his hand and laced their fingers. Alfred's flesh was hot on his own, and it was a searing pain that Arthur endured to capture any glimpse of normalcy in his derailed life. He felt as if someone had taken his heart and threw it across a rugby field, and he couldn't run fast enough to catch it before it hit the ground and shattered into a million unfixable pieces. He found the energy to kindle Alfred's hand in return, so as to not let his fingers go limp and not return the gesture. The ring on his finger was cold against his hand, but it was not as distasteful as it might have been had Alfred grabbed his hand a moment earlier. Alfred really did know exactly how to handle him, Arthur admitted to himself. Arthur braced himself to speak.

"What to do," he whispered with his best effort, voice cracking slightly. Alfred's grip on his hand tightened in anticipation. "What to do with myself."

Alfred sat for a moment before nodding in response. Arthur exhaled shakily.

Arthur had lived his life in the comfort of being second in line for the throne. His brother Alistair was the oldest and inherited the throne after their mother passed a half decade ago. He and his younger brothers had all been taught the structure of the Monarchy as a very basic lesson on becoming king (if you could even call it that), but none of them were ever anticipating taking the throne for themselves. Especially Arthur.

The feeling of despair he felt was indescribable as he was told earlier that day that Alistair, his wife, and their son, aged 10, were all wrecked in the car journey to the local arboretum they were to visit, and there were no survivors, including the driver and security personnel. It didn't register to Arthur at first, but once the horror filled his face and he realized what that meant, his head was suddenly screaming at him to run as fast as he could before the grief could even set in.

He was going to be king.

He couldn't be king.

He didn't _want _to be king.

Arthur Kirkland-Jones, the unassuming Duke of Sussex, whose mum had forgotten a middle name for, whose skinny legs were never strong enough for him to play sports, whose personality was described as 'fruity' after being the first homosexual prince in modern history, was now King of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth.

What was he going to do? What would Alfred think? What could he-

"Arthur?" Alfred had shifted slightly so that they were closer, and Arthur was drawn out of his thoughts, choking quietly on the air. He hoped Alfred didn't hear it. "Arthur, are you alright?" Alfred's thumb was gently caressing Arthur's pale hand, and he managed a nod, though whether it was to Alfred's question or a silent thank you to the love that hung in the air, he was not sure.

"Did you hear what I said?"

Arthur hesitated. "No," he admitted.

Alfred brought Arthur's fingers up to his mouth to kiss them, and he held them close to his mouth as he spoke. "What do you mean, what to do with yourself?"

Arthur took a deep breath and attempted to fix his slouching posture. He leaned against the back of the seat and let his head drop back, so he was looking at the ceiling. He felt as if his skin was cracking, and his locus of control was pouring out of him at every orifice at an alarming rate. It was akin to trying to hold water in a single hand or trying to capture sunlight in a jar. He shut his eyes tightly, and when he opened them again the light in the room was brighter than he remembered it.

"This changes everything, Alfred," he said with dismay, "and I'm not sure how we're to manage it all. How am I supposed to act? I'm not king material. I'm only _royalty _because of my lineage; I didn't ask for this. I'm just…Arthur."

The atmosphere seemed to suddenly change, as Alfred shifted so his face was in Arthur's, staring into his eyes intensely. Arthur tried to swat him away, but Alfred didn't budge, his goofy expression burning into Arthur's heart. Arthur felt a small smile tugging at his lips.

"_Just _Arthur, huh?" Alfred cocked an eyebrow and poked Arthur's cheek. Arthur grimaced. "Do you remember how we got together?"

Arthur scoffed with slight amusement, still looking at the ceiling. "If by 'get together' you mean have our first encounter, then of course I remember, you dolt. I was there." Arthur had just finished his military service, and was attending a flashy, high-profile party dressed to the nines to celebrate. The funds contributed by guests were to be donated to Arthur's chosen charity, his philanthropy being what he was most proud of. It was there he met the equally suited up American, who was in London for a business trip with the charity Arthur organized his dues with.

"I don't think _just Arthur _could have raised that much money that night. I don't think _just Arthur_ could have convinced me to stay in London an extra week and I don't think _just Arthur _would be brave enough to have a highly televised wedding with his _male _partner. But you did it, babe, so you can pull this one off too. Just, ya know, on a huge, crazy, ridiculous scale. And you gotta know politics and stuff, which kinda sucks." Alfred smiled cockily at Arthur, who knew he couldn't keep it together much longer.

"Firstly, don't call me 'babe', and second, it's _going to_, not 'gotta'." Arthur's weak attempt at humor was humored by Alfred, who laughed quietly. "You're going to have to give up so much," he whispered, defeated. "You'll need to become a citizen of the Commonwealth, and we cannot travel frequently back to New York, and we'll need to have children to heir the throne, and there will be no privacy in our daily lives, and-"

Arthur was cut off when Alfred kissed him. Alfred didn't even have to say a word for Arthur to understand what he was trying to say, the reassurance from Alfred seeming to link between them seamlessly without words. Arthur's heart finally broke. He would deny it later, but he began crying into the kiss. His seal had been broken and once the tears began, they did not stop. His worries were temporarily subsided as he grieved, and dear lord, was he _ugly crying_?

He clutched on to Alfred, his bleeding heart beating a million miles a minute. Their love was sticky in the air, and Arthur couldn't comprehend how he had gotten so lucky, or if his luck would continue moving forward, or if things would be truly alright. But when Alfred tightened his hold on his shaking frame, Arthur let himself spiral, feeling both safe and terrified at the same time.

Alfred, his heart, his whole heart, was right there with him, bleeding with him, and for a moment time stopped and it was just them, and that was good enough for Arthur.


End file.
